


Stay With Me (Unlikely)

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fridget, One Shot, Songfic, post s5, pre S6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 14:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14812935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: On the run, Franky Doyle assumes she has nothing left to lose. Unable to stay away, she visits Bridget one last time.





	Stay With Me (Unlikely)

**Author's Note:**

> While listening to Celldweller's "Stay With Me," this fic started churning gears in my head a few weeks ago. Listening to quite a bit of Woodkid also inspired this. Just wanted to take a stab at something different since this isn't my usual pairing to write for. Enjoy. :)

> I don’t have much else to say (unlikely)  
> I’d rather you go away (unlikely)  
> I don’t need something from you (unlikely)  
> Though some say I will heal over time  
> It doesn’t seem too likely  
> It seems unlikely
> 
> **Stay With Me (Unlikely)** – Celldweller

Like a convicted felon (isn’t she?), Franky Doyle slips in through the backyard. Hops over the fence akin to a fox scurrying towards the coop. The act takes her back to her vagabond youth, seeking escapism from her mother’s fists and insults. With a firm yank, the glass door slides aside. Her runners track in a trail of fresh mud. The rain stops its angry chase.

For Franky, pushing - running - away has always been easier.  She recalls her teen years and running for the high - the relief to escape a fucked up life.

But not this time.

Soaked to the bone, frigid hands tremble. Her teeth very nearly chatter. Remorse flashes across her face, brighter than lighting, as wane as the dim light at the end of the hall.

She misses the days where she could waltz in through the front door and scoop her beloved into her arms. It pains her more than the inflicted wound from Jacs Holt that now mars her chest.

Her touch spiders along the marble countertop of their – Gidge’s – kitchenette. A glance over the shoulder reveals fonder memories: photographs entombed in kitschy wooden frames. A token from Bridget’s father, ever the self-proclaimed woodworker.

Coming here is indicative of her own recklessness.

It’s a farewell song more than anything.

“Don’t come closer.”

A voice warns at the end of the hall.

Instinct rather than reason urges Bridget Westfall to refrain from phoning the police. A screwdriver, she decides, is better than no weapon at all. She squeezes the handle in a vise-like grip. Now armed, she prepares herself for the point of no return. Bare feet pad across the cool floor. She fights off a shudder. At the opposite end of the hall, the figure is slim, lithe, and undeniably familiar.

A modern day Paracelsus, Bridget prides herself on her observational skills aligned with a wisdom beyond her years. She knows that body, she knows that woman.

The screwdriver clatters on the ground.

“Franky?”

Bridget asks for a second time, full of disbelief, recalling Franky’s proclamation of love a few nights prior. She stiffens, as if a case of rigor mortis sets in.

She lowers the hood to banish the image of executioner. She could never be Gidge’s ruin. She would never let her anger latch onto her girl.

“Yeah…” Her cocksure attitude fades along with her voice. It’s a miserable croak. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Franky licks her lips. Her eyes soften upon seeing Gidge in sleepwear: shorts and a silk, lavender tank. How many times has she felt that – felt her – against her skin? In her arms?

A witch hunt has been launched in the name of Doyle and Ferguson; it’s not safe here. Bridget can no longer provide sanctuary.

With a fondness for the Hippocratic oath, Bridget aspires to do no harm and so, she’s kept her painful distance from Franky. Just as she does now. She combs through the tangle of blonde curls.

“Baby, you can’t stay.”

The term of endearment squeezes her tongue. It tastes chalky. She chokes back her tears to no avail.

“I’m _tired_ , Franky,” Bridget admits in a dull, tinny whisper. “I can’t do this.”

No longer self-assured, she collapses in on herself. She sighs in resignation. Nimble fingers grip the edge of the counter.

She drowns in guilt and the depth of Bridget’s stare. They could have had a life together. It seems unlikely now.

Franky’s arms draw tight across her chest. She tries to close herself off – a throwback to the passion and wildfire that grew between them. It didn’t work then; it won’t work now.

Hurting Gidge had never been her intention. It feels like losing a part of herself. This goodbye thrown into the fire.

She wills herself to move one foot at a time. A lack of proper nutrition makes her legs wobble, but in due time, she closes the vast distance between them. Franky holds her by the shoulders in an attempt to console her. She feels the other woman tremble faintly, her eyes beginning to water.

“I’m heaps sorry,” she exclaims without a proper explanation.

Quivering palms coast along Franky’s flushed cheeks. A thumb traces the slope of her jaw in silent adoration. Their noses touch, their lips part. Bridget isn't sure if it's the rain or tears that fall onto her collarbone. Seeing her love wet, hurting, and undeniably lost twists the knife into Bridget's bleeding heart.

“A stolen kiss isn’t what I want, Franky.”

Bridget grows limp in her arms. With a shake of her head, her palms strike her sides.

“Let me go, baby,” Gidge pleads, her voice muffled against Franky’s shoulder. There, she plants a kiss for her devotion. She finds herself holding on, clinging to this woman like a lifeline.

Her Sinatra blue eyes scream ‘let it go, let it go.’

“Nuh. Fuck that.”

She turns on her heel and kisses the back of her hand.

Without wax, she confesses her sworn truth, “I fuckin’ love ya.”

It’s hard on both of them. Bridget yearns to reciprocate – to spit out the words that overflow her heart, but there’s so much hurt. She falls back on logic and reason.

“Just go.”

“Stay with me,” Franky pleads.

She’s mucked this up.

“I don’t want to,” Franky protests.

Bridget breaks free from the tight embrace though slim fingers encompass her wrist. Luring her in, pulling her in still.

Even a sigh fills her body with a prolonged ache. A great and terrible pain.

“I can’t see you _dead_ , Franky. You need to clear your name.” She sweeps back damp, dark locks.

Another promise squeezes Bridget's heart as Franky slithers away. She walks in reverse and it feels the minutes that have transpired crawl on like hours.

"I won't forget ya."

She kisses two fingers and holds them in the air for Franky to catch. Her hand forms a fist that pounds against her chest. She imagines Gidge's heart in the palm of her hand and the heat of her kisses to set her free.

"I'll always love you, baby."

Bridget watches her leave, watches her run into the thundering night, the only trace left behind happens to be the slithering trail of mud.


End file.
